THE dagger brooding in the Spanish sun was palpably ancient - a dark, heavy implement of meteoric iron, so blackened with age that the runic markings inscribed on its leaf-shaped blade were scarcely discernible without the aid of a strong light and a magnifying glass. Set near the edge of a large mahogany desk, it rested sullenly on its pillow of white silk like a toad squatting on a white marble grave slab, its sleeping presence suggestive of old bloodshed and primitive violence.
Overlooking the desk from the creamy stuccoed wall behind it was a black-and-white drawing of a similar artifact, a tore of the same dark metal, its iron density highlighted in silver by strange zoomorphic designs that troubled the eye with their interweaving lines. An accompanying set of runic inscriptions reinforced the probable close kinship of tore and dagger, not only as to their origin but likewise their purpose. The arcane nature of that common purpose was no secret to the dagger's present keeper. The tore was now lost, but Francis Raeburn had witnessed firsthand the elemental powers it had been fashioned to focus through its wearer. Both terrible and exquisite, the allure of such power was seductive, addictive, despite the cost. Since acquiring the dagger, Raeburn had spared no effort in attempting to decipher the kindred mysteries bound up in the sorcerous patterns of its runes. With one or two significant breakthroughs now behind him, he was confident that it was only a matter of time before those mysteries would be his to command. His study of the dagger, however, did not prevent him from taking an interest in any other intriguing artifacts that might happen to come his way. Just now, sitting in the book-lined solitude of what might have been a library of the late Renaissance, he was carrying out the daily ritual of sifting through the morning's mail. Off to his right, a recessed pair of doors stood open to the tiled courtyard beyond, where a small fountain played softly amidst an array of potted ferns and ornamental orange trees.
Deaf to the subdued music of the water, Raeburn abstracted a large envelope bearing an assortment of German stamps and set the rest aside. As he reached for the ivory-handled Moorish dagger that served as his letter opener, a fugitive gleam of sunlight from one of the east windows glanced off the signet ring he wore on the third finger of his right hand. The stone was a bloodred carnelian, cut square in the form of a cartouche, bearing the device of a snarling lynx head.
Carefully he slit open the German envelope and extracted its contents: a cover letter and half a dozen photographs. A cursory glance at the photos produced a thin smile as he sat back in his leather chair to read the letter.
It had been over eighteen months since he had traded the Victorian refinements of his Scottish country house for the equal opulence and greater security of his present residence, a walled villa on the south coast of Spain. Outside, beyond the terraced terracotta rooftops of the town, the Mediterranean sun was laying down a pattern of dazzle across a blue bay the color of a Madonna's robe. Inside, a shadowy cool prevailed, redolent of Moroccan leather, Spanish cedarwood, and the pungent fragrance of lemons wafted in on the breeze from a neighboring citrus grove. Oblivious to the scents and sounds of his Andalusian retreat, Raeburn cast his avid gaze over the correspondence at hand.
The letter was from an associate in Berlin, acting as his agent. The attendant photographs were studies of a grail-like golden cup, taken from various angles. The sides of the cup were embellished with swastikas and other runic symbols. The provenance - or so the present owner claimed - was directly traceable to one of the black lodges known to have been working actively on Hitler's behalf in the late 1930s.
The item, as might be expected, was not readily available. Indeed, it was not for sale at any price. Klaus Richter's contact, a man named Hans Grausmann, professed to have reliable knowledge of its present location, but a third man held actual possession. In light of the cup's potential worth, the price Grausmann was asking for sharing that knowledge was high, but not excessive, in Richter's opinion. More than a little tempted by the proposition, Raeburn was just weighing up the financial considerations of the enterprise when his contemplation was jarred by a sharp, peremptory knock at the door.
The summons was sudden enough to bring Raeburn upright in his chair, annoyance furrowing his fair brow.
"Yes, what is it?" he snapped.
A rangy, dark-haired man in khakis poked his head into the room apologetically and then entered - Barclay, Raeburn's pilot, driver, and general factotum. Like Raeburn, he wore a carnelian lynx ring - and also a .45 automatic stuck into his waistband.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Raeburn, but I thought you ought to know you've got a couple of visitors."
"Visitors?" A scowl pulled at the corners of Raeburn's mouth. "You know full well I don't have any appointments scheduled for this morning. Tell them to go away."
"They're - ah - already in the entrance lobby, sir. I saw 'em on the security monitor. I can't explain how they got past the gate. And Rosita and Jorge are in another part of the house; they didn't let 'em in."
"You mean they just - appeared?"
"Yessir."
Raeburn's pale gaze flicked to the pistol in Barclay's waistband, suddenly aware of the pilot's uncharacteristic uneasiness.
"Who the devil are these people?" he asked softly.
"They look like Oriental monks, sir," Barclay said. "Not exactly Buddhist, but something like it. I remember seeing robes like that when I was out East in Nepal. Something to do with shamanistic rituals - "
"Tibetan black ngagspas." Raeburn used the native term for "sorcerers" with biting certainty. Fully alert now, he slipped Richter's letter and photographs into the top drawer of his desk, partially masking the presence of the .32 caliber Biretta lurking amongst the secretarial clutter of pens, envelopes, and stationery. Leaving the drawer discreetly ajar, he was just drawing breath to give Barclay instructions when two exotic figures clad in orange and black stepped into the doorway.
They were small and wiry by Western standards, and definitely Tibetan. The older one had a face seamed and chiselled like a carving in old ivory; the younger looked to be about of an age with Raeburn. As Barclay turned in challenge, reaching for his pistol, the younger monk raised his right hand and touched the pilot lightly behind his right ear with the tip of a triple-edged dagger.
Barclay's eyes went blank, all resistance fading away. Mouth slightly agape, he lapsed into passive immobility, his hands sinking slack to his sides, face wiped clean of all expression, swaying slightly on his feet. Raeburn had half come to his feet in alarm, but made himself sit again as he glared at the two intruders and considered the desk drawer.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded coldly. "What have you done to my associate?"
From far too close, the monks regarded him with a mixture of indulgence and faint disdain.
"Your servant has not been harmed," said the elder of the pair. "He has merely been rendered inactive."
"As for you, Francis Raeburn," the other instructed with bland authority, ' 'you will please to keep your hands in plain sight."
Both monks spoke English with a strongly inflected accent. Looking from one to the other of the pair, Raeburn saw that both possessed the heavy daggers with triple-edged blades. The nature and purpose of such daggers was not unknown to him, nor was he ignorant of the kind of damage they could do in hands trained to manipulate such mysteries. Cautiously he eased himself back in his chair, ostentatiously displaying his empty hands.
"Who sent you?" he demanded. Then supplied the answer himself. "Siegfried - or perhaps I ought to have said Dorje,"
he amended, when neither of the monks appeared to recognize the German name.
"Dorje Rinpoche," the elder of the monks corrected gently. "He wishes to speak with you."
"Does he?" Raeburn's thin smile just missed a sneer.
"Your presence is required at Tolung Tserphug," the younger monk stated. "You will prepare to leave for Switzerland at once."
Despite his outward show of bravado, Raeburn felt his pulse surge in sudden apprehension. It had been thirty years and more since he last had visited the remote Alpine monastery where, as a boy, he had acquired most, if not all, of his working knowledge of Eastern ritual magic. In those days, his nearest contemporary had been a tall German youth, slightly older than himself, whose undeniable affinity for power had been matched only by his towering arrogance.
That arrogance had been fuelled by his having been acknowledged within the monastery as the most recent reincarnation of a supreme Tibetan sorcerer known throughout the ages as "Green Gloves" - a claim which had yet to be proven to Raeburn's satisfaction. Because of that claim and that title, however, Siegfried - or Dorje Rinpoche - had been accorded a degree of instruction denied the monastery's less exalted initiates. And it was this, more than anything else, that Raeburn had resented.
Nonetheless, though he had not seen Siegfried/Dorje since leaving Tolung Tserphug, he had followed some of his activities, and had cause to be wary concerning some of his own activities in recent years, where they touched on Dorje's concerns. While he did not accept Dorje's authority over him, the rumors of his power could not be denied. Nor could this cavalier summons - which gave every indication of being a command, not a request.
"This invitation comes at a rather awkward time," he ventured cautiously, eyeing the two monks. "I'm involved in several important projects. What if it doesn't suit me to accept?''
The elder of the two monks elevated a disinterested eyebrow. ' 'The question is without substance. If any resistance is offered, we are empowered to do whatever is required to ensure that the wishes of Dorje Rinpoche are carried out."
The answer was not so much a threat as a statement of intent. Raeburn had no doubt that the monks could carry out their master's wishes. However much it galled him to admit it, he appeared to have no choice but to go along, at least in the short term. Otherwise, he was apt to wind up like Barclay. He was just promising himself the satisfaction of staging a rebellion at the first viable opportunity, when the younger monk spoke again.
"Time grows short. Rinpoche is aware that you have not the mastery of lung-gom - you would call it speedwalking. Therefore, it will be necessary that you travel to him by more conventional means. You have access here to air transport." It was not a question but a statement.
"I have a helicopter at my disposal," Raeburn admitted. "As to whether it is capable of flying to Switzerland on such short notice, we shall have to ask my pilot - assuming, of course, that your interference has left his faculties intact," he added with a touch of sarcasm.
The younger monk countered this veiled accusation with a faintly superior smile and a touch of the point of his dagger to Barclay's temple. The pilot sucked in a gulp of air and gave his head a bemused shake.
"Are you all right?" Raeburn demanded.
Barclay was blinking rapidly, as if to clear his vision. In response to his employer's question, he gave a mute nod.
"I hope you're quite sure you've got all your wits about you," Raeburn said, "because I need a few quick answers. Has the chopper got the range to make it to Switzerland?"
Barclay drew a steadying breath as he gave another nod. "No problem, sir," he muttered huskily. "We'd have to do it by stages, of course, but she'll make the trip easily."
"And what about you?" Raeburn asked. "Are you sure you're fit to fly?"
"I - think so, sir," the pilot replied, apparently steadying by the second. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little lightheaded for a few seconds there."
Raeburn would have preferred to stall for time, if only on principle, but Barclay's answer deprived him of any effective excuse for delay. Resigning himself to accept the inevitable, at least for now, he asked, "How long will it take you to get her ready to fly?''
Barclay considered, eyeing the monks sidelong. ' 'That depends on how many passengers, sir, and precisely where you intend to go in Switzerland."
Raeburn glanced at the monks.
"We shall accompany you," the elder monk said. "And your course should be plotted to Bern, though we shall not go that far. We shall direct you from the Swiss border."
"You heard the man," Raeburn said to Barclay. "Four it is, going toward Bern."
The pilot dipped his head in agreement. "Right, sir. I'll need to do some book work first, to figure out the stages. The first part's easy enough, but fuel efficiency drops dramatically once we have to start climbing over mountains."
"How long before we can leave?" Raeburn interjected. "I trust you to deal with the logistic arrangements."
Barclay swallowed visibly, darting a glance at their orange-robed "visitors."
"With standard preflight, fuelling - say, maybe an hour or two."
"Then I suggest you get started right now," Raeburn said. "And have Pilar pack us each a bag. It appears that you and I have some unscheduled business waiting for us in Switzerland."